


The Hunter Dossier C

by woodburnb



Category: The Laundry Files - Charles Stross
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-01-12 05:53:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18440366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodburnb/pseuds/woodburnb
Summary: The further adventures and crisis of Captain Helen Hunter, SOE, in the increasingly labyrinthine and deadly corridors of the Laundry post WW2.





	1. A whisper into the void

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by stories from Charles Stross, and the non fiction history "The Bletchley Girls" by Tessa Dunlop  
> The best bits are inspired by Charlie, the worst bits are all my mistakes and the weird bits are true.  
> Don't provoke the wrath of the sleeping dragon on its steaming hoard!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interesting idea but would it last?

Central London Autumn 1945

“No, no, no! You have to keep to the correct timing and cadence, so start again.” Helen scolded as she reigned in her impatience; it was becoming a trying day, she had only been back in London a few weeks and was still working hard at not shooting, blowing up or damning to the furthest regions of demon haunted hell any and all frustrations that came her way.

The tuxedoed radio presenter was squirming slightly with frustration behind his microphone.

“Think of it as a piece of poetry, but one were the words are changing daily but the intonation timing and cadence must be preserved. It is very important. Let’s try it again” she said more calmly as she wiped her forehead and sat down.

The sound proofed room at the radio studio at Broadcasting House was becoming stuffy even without the heating but at least it was secure enough to prevent any stray sound waves escaping.

At first Helen had thought that her orders were a mistake or some poor taste practical joke until she had done some background snooping. Now she was amazed at the mind that had conceived the idea and its audacity. Of course the war had shaken up the thinking in the department she worked for and there was now a more ready acceptance of how technology could be utilized. But still, so openly and for such a long projected timescale, breath-taking. Of course secrecy demanded that Enochian not be used but a lot of work had produced an English word palette that would produce resonances in the desired field, with enough repetition over a long enough time frame. Even better in that it had a real mundane use that was a perfect cover. Broadcasting “spells” at the world, several times a day, with the full power of the Beeb. It would be interesting to see if it worked.

“That’s better, now try some of the variations and watch out for the timing, for the gaps, they are just as important, it has to be the same on every run through.” Helen nodded at him, another half hour and she could start on the next announcer.

With a relieved breath the announcer continued.

“Tyne, Dogger. Northeast 3 or 4. Occasional rain. Moderate or poor ….


	2. the rewards of victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> skills put to the test and survival not guaranteed

 

Survival in the shrinking labyrinth that the Laundry becomes.

A story still to be coalesced


	3. A tortured path weaved.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A simple job in Berlin leads to an end.

It was mid-June 1948 and I was once again in a grimy basement in London, queuing up to be given weapons and the tools of my trade from the Laundry. The clerk monotonously going through each checklist slowly and pedantically with each of us in the queue, well this was Britain. So much for the excitement of secret service for His Majesty and the Empire. Eventually I got to the counter and he started his litany.

“Browning 45,”

Check

“2 spare magazines including banishment rounds”

Check

“Hand of Glory mark 1”

Check, distastefully

“Cyanide pill”

Check

“Two chaff grenades mark 2 (small)”

Check

“Defensive ward, personal, level 3”

Check

“Travel guide to Berlin”

Check

“Curta type 1S (modified)”

Che what ? What’s that?” I spluttered at the bored clerk across the counter, as I reached across to pick it up.

“Are you field certified for the Curta type 1S (modified), Ma’am?” He asked as he reached across and gently took the cylinder from my grasp and placed it behind him on the store bench.

“No, what is it, what does it do?” I replied as I peered around him at it.

“Until you are certified I cannot allocate one to you Ma’am. I suggest getting in contact with personnel and applying for the next training course”

The brief glimpse I had of it showed a small palm sized cylinder with a hand crank at one end with some occult symbols showing along the sides.

“Passport, rail warrant and flight documents”, continued the clerk.

Check, I grumbled. I was fed up with the RAF and their second rate Dakota’s.

“Captain if you can sign here, and here and here. Thank you and good luck” the stores clerk briskly said as he whisked the forms and spare equipment away and back into the stores.

“Come along Helen, I’ll show you mine on the plane, it will help take your mind off the flight.” Perks said from behind me as I shuffled the equipment into various pockets and a small khaki satchel.

True to her word as promised when the turbulence got bad on the approach to Hamburg, Perks managed to distract me with details about the Curta.

The background I researched later, as I was recovering, was really unbelievable. It seems the boffins in Cheltenham and Cambridge had been working on an electromechanical spell generator that would remove the need for squishy brains to get involved. It was the size of a small room weighed 3 tonnes and worked one time in six. They were very proud until a visiting Professor showed them a hand held mechanical calculator he had picked up in Liechtenstein of all places. Well after taking it apart and failing to get it to work again, pressure was put on the Foreign Office to do a deal with the manufacturers. A small and specialised manufactory was set up by them in Cheltenham to produce the machine with the very special modifications that the Laundry needed. The original integers were replaced with a specialised symbology linked to Enochian that could produce a workable, useful incantation three times out of five. Not bad considering it fit in your hand and with training it took only a few seconds. The range of incantations it produced was limited to defensive wards and making things go bang but then that was SOE wanted. The restricted files reported that tests on prisoners had produced a statistically significant decrease in the effects of Krantzberg syndrome for users compared to the control group. Trials and research were as always ongoing.

Perks enthusiasm for the little widget I found endearing compared to her usual mania for weaponry and she got me through the worst of the flight.

Then there was the final flight from Hamburg to the British zone of Berlin.

Berlin still looked a mess but it was better than it had been in 46 when I was last sent there.

 

Despite most of SOE no longer existing we were still on someone’s organisational chart and Q section had a non-descript shed like office in a lonely corner of the main British barracks. The briefing was brief, uninformative and for Perks disappointingly boring

“Sorry Sir, but you just want us to just wander about looking at sites in the Russian zone, and to act suspiciously but not so suspiciously that we get stopped, and then return?” she asked

“Yes, precisely, maybe between targets you can window shop or some such?” replied the Officer.

“It’s alright Perks it seems we are to be a distraction for something else. Gods know what, but we aren’t allowed to. Is that not correct Sir?” I put in.

“I can’t possibly comment Captain. Here are your travel permits and make sure you are at the checkpoint for 0800 tomorrow. That will be all. Dismissed” he replied curtly. We collected the paperwork and left the office.

“Well this is a waste of our time Helen, why not make the best of it and we can get changed and head for the American sector. I’ve heard it can be quite lively, maybe a meal and some dancing, what do you say?” Perks said with a smile that would accept no refusal.

“I think you are right Perks, let’s make the most of it, it’s Saturday night after all. Let’s get our glad rags on and see what our allies can do for us.”

The American sector was all that Perks wanted, loud and raucous with plenty of soldiers carrying guns. Eventually I managed to drag her away and get some officers to buy us a meal and drinks. The music and dancing was lively as well, as we plunged from jazz club to club. Eventually in the small hours we were returned singing and laughing by speeding jeep to the pensione serving as the women’s officer’s quarters on the outskirts of the main barracks. A late night would do no harm if all we had to do next day was waste time strolling about.

Perks was the worse for wear next morning but put a brave face on it even if breakfast was too much for her. We arrived at the checkpoint and moved into East Berlin and the Russian zone without a hitch since we were wearing civvies and had plenty of official documents. It was a quiet Sunday morning and not much appeared to be happening. The streets and people looked markedly different to the American zone on Saturday but then most of Britain would have come second best to last night’s sights.

After a while of looking at bombed out offices and grey streets we found a street market which was a bit more fun for some rummaging about for the weird and wonderful. Many unusual objects had been washed westwards by the flows of refugees and soldiers. I was even able to acquire some very specialised objets d’art noir after some haggling. There was a stall selling beer and hot sausages. The boiled white sausage I ordered left Perks looking green so she kept to bread and weak coffee. That just left a planned long afternoon of strolling in the summer sunshine around some reconstructed parks and office buildings then back to base for a meal and bed.

 

“This cannot be happening. This cannot be happening. This cannot be happening.” My thoughts on a loop as I dragged the whimpering body of Perks through the sludge and darkness of a sewer under Berlin. The down slope of the sewer was helping but the slippery flooring and my Sunday shoes made it difficult to remain upright and keep Perks’ face above the “water” level. I need to keep moving to find somewhere safer, somewhere I could try and stop Perks bleeding out.

The sounds of pursuit had faded but now I could no longer convince myself the distant splashing behind me was the rats disturbed by my progress. A junction, left or right, small or large, which way to go? Perks groaned again and I could feel her convulse through my grip on her collar. “Keep moving downwards, into the dark, away from pursuit”.

I slipped into what sounded like a larger void, there was now a continuous rushing sound as the water flowed past me and disappeared over what sounded like a drop. Perks’ body slowly tried to follow the current and push past me. I desperately risked an incantation to raise a glimmer of light into the darkness. There to the right, another tunnel and beside it a set of steps to a platform and ladders leading up. I dragged the unresisting body of Perks that way.

“Hold on love, we’re nearly there, hold on,” I gasped out. But a sudden flash of light, as the access hatch was raised and dropped accompanied by swearing in Russian, killed that hope. With a surge of desperate strength I dragged Perks into the smaller sewer drain and with a lunge forced us both into an even smaller feeder pipe. I lay there wrapped around Perks as the sludge oozed past. Light and shouting bounced around the cavern we had just left.

The lights and voices ebbed and flowed for what seemed hours as Helen held Perks’ face out of the muck. Eventually the searching stopped and the Russians left, leaving Helen utterly alone, weeping in the dark.

 

Helen’s strength finally gave out; she could not get Perks’ body up the ladder. Having spent over 24 hours in the sewers she had now reached the end of her strength. She had dragged Perks’ body over half of a mile through the subterranean tunnels and now was soaked through, chilled to the bone and desolated. Now she sat on the platform next to Perks and wept some more.

Eventually she removed all the i.d. and personal effects from Perks and curled her up on the platform. A last kiss and then she slowly climbed the ladder and crawled under the manhole cover into the night. She had made it to the British sector and though there was no curfew the streets were mostly deserted. She still kept to the shadows though, she could not be sure she was safe, even here.

A patrol of two MP’s she found parked up in a jeep, having a quiet fag break in an alley off a main strasse. They almost died of fright when the stinking ghoul came out of the shadows and she bound them to obedience using her warrant card. Within the hour they recovered Perks and wrapping her in a tarp placed her in the jeep, then they returned to barracks with their silently terrifying passenger.

 

The sun was glaring through the dusty window and casting stripes of light across the desk of the Duty Auditor, who had been rushed to Berlin to clean up the mess. Helen blankly watched the dust motes swirling through the light and shade and refused to cry.

“Well Agent Darjeeling the asset was successfully exfiltrated from Berlin, the only losses being your subordinate..ahh Perks was it? It would be best that the body is returned to Blighty and the burial and paperwork happen there. This office will take care of it, it should only take a day or so to process. There is a flight Thursday this week, taking home the bodies from a car crash yesterday, we will put her in with them. Had you known her long?”

“Since 41, we worked in London during the War. Permission to accompany her back to Britain Sir? She did not have any family to take care of her.” I replied bleakly

A long shrewd look from the Duty Auditor as he weighed up the pros and cons, his last shreds of humanity winning through in my favour.

“I think that would be acceptable. I will sign you off duty till then, and then you can take the same flight home. I can only tell you that her sacrifice was not in vain and the success of the mission was of the utmost importance. If you will return at 0800 on Thursday I will have travel orders for you then. Dismissed Agent.” Then he turned away to some paperwork.

I sat numbly for a moment, then with a muttered “Sir” left

The late afternoon sunshine made no difference to the British barracks which were a pretty glum and indifferent affair, but I eventually found the hospital and morgue. Since the only clothing I had left that was not covered in blood and shit was the uniform I was wearing, then I had had an easier time clearing out the orderly and sealing the morgue. I had a long night of tears and guilt ahead of me.

The Sicilians may say that revenge is a dish best served cold, but I think vengeance is best done hot and angry and with as much pain as possible. But first some planning and reconnaissance, I was angry not stupid. So at 0700 I was in the “office” reviewing the files before their sealing and transport to London, as I explained to the duty corporal. Of course I took the opportunity to “review” the files on our opposite numbers across the border, just to keep up on the local knowledge, since the files on the operation just finished were now above my clearance. I just needed the rough details of who and where the people responsible might be. I would sort out the rest on my own.

I stood opposite the busy building, glumly watching it in my wretched dull and dusty clothes and heavy cloth bags, procured at a street market for a few of the new Deutsche Marks which the locals now preferred over shillings. My glamour of an old woman just surviving any old how, had faded me to near invisibility in the eyes of the noble Soviet conquerors. This was the last site disclosed by the Laundry Berlin files as the supposed HQ of the Soviet NKVD section responsible for occult affairs. This now appeared more promising. The colour of shoulder and lapel flashes of officers strutting in and out matching up to the fractured images of the ambush in my memory. Was that only three days ago, it felt like a lifetime. The faint acrid screech of occult power scratching at my nerves was also a pretty good clue. Someone inside the large building, was it a repurposed hotel, no a police station, was being too indiscriminate with the use of power. So time to look around.

The building was solidly built, had guards on the front door and then three floors and probable, no definitely, basements and cellars. Also there was no way out the back unless you could climb the twenty foot high wall topped with barbed wire. Very imposing. All the better to make an example of I thought. One of the other sites might make a good distraction. Then I could do what I needed at this, the primary target. Anyway, time to head back and plot and prepare.

Well now it was Thursday morning, the flight out was not till 1300 so I had a few hours to get the deed done and get to RAF Gatow. I was surprisingly well rested. Perks was packed and ready to go, and so was I. I had spruced up my uniform, “borrowed” a jeep and was heading for my targets. No need to be too early and miss out on the senior officers who would still be a bed. The checkpoint being much easier to cross into the Soviet zone than to leave, especially for a pretty officer who smiled at bored guards and was generous with the American cigarettes.

Well I pulled up across the road from my target, honked the horn and waved at the sentries as they watched but ignored me. A few more minutes tapping on the horn got some onlookers from the windows and uneasy and edgy sentries who after a lot of waving finally crossed the road to check me out. To think I was doing them a favour and would leave them alive, some people have no sense of gratitude.

Anyway it was the work of but moments and a brief use of power to have them both crucified to the walls of the building with a good view of their HQ. I did of course want some witnesses left at the end.

As I walked across the road towards the door it occurred to me that my djinn had been intimately connected to me when I was afraid, hurt, angry, happy, ecstatic and even bored. Yet today was a day when it would get a new experience, the total unfiltered hysteria of a vengeful lover. As I opened my mind to its microscopic observations of my guilt and anguish and pain and earth shattering fury. It certainly perked up and as I strode up the steps, I could feel my heart pounding faster, my hair standing on end and the sparks leaking their death entropy into the granite steps. A complex wave of my hands and the telephone wires fell from the wall with a sizzle and a sputter of smoke. I felt myself release my demons as my rational mind decided to go for a quick lie down. The first two guards out of the door clutching their sub machine guns just ignited and fell to the floor, after that it got easier and easier. It did not take long and I refuse to think about it anymore.

The smoke from the distant burning building was just becoming visible to the border guards as I drove through the checkpoint and towards the airbase and the waiting plane. It was a lonely flight home chasing the summer sun as a bleak and empty life opened up before me while behind me Berlin was sealed off from the world.


	4. Case Babylon Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The run up to Helens last case 1956

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1956 link to the “mysterious” death of the mathematician Ventris who deciphered Linear B with work based on Kober and with the aid of Chadwick. He extends his work into deciphering Linear A, this language now being revealed to holding the key to easier transcription and enacting of magical formulae, for the invoking of elder gods. Once terminated Helen then side-lined once again and discredited after 56 (saving of world) and finally attempts on her life by Ways and Means leads to Code Blue and her Death/escape.

1956 Hampstead, London

The sound of her footsteps were accompanied by the last tinkling of glass, thank the gods there were no moans this time as Helen walked steadily back to the car, parked discretely around the corner. Her sensible heels tapping a beat on the flagstones that helped quell the queasiness in her mind. To all appearances she was just another respectable woman of a certain age, heading home from an office job in the city. She still had a few minutes before civilians would risk investigating the sounds of the “traffic accident” behind her. She hoped the wreck would not ignite as that would make verification more troublesome at the post mortem.

“Now Smith, nice and gently does it, back to town.” I told the driver as I slid into the passenger seat of the dark, anonymous Austin. Smith was definitely not his name, but that did not matter, only the threat he posed to me or the skills he had that I could use were. That was the sort of place the Laundry had become these days. Well at least the corpse in the car should bring a final end to Case Babylon Blue. An end certainly, not the one I had hoped for, but maybe the one I deserved. The few street lights cast their amber glare through the windows of the car as it made its way back to London.

 

** New York, May 1950. **

The droning in the dimly lit chamber reached a crescendo and snapped to silence as the cowled figure stepped forward and poured a dark ichor across both glowing parchments which steamed and crackled. Then the figure intoned in a booming and unearthly cadence

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, if these documents can be taken to the typing pool then copies can be prepared for all interested parties. Then if there is no other business, I pronounce this meeting closed”.

A select group from the Laundry had been sent to New York to deal with our counterparts attached to the new CIA. A whole week of interminable committee meetings on the general, legalistic, bureaucratic, outlining of spheres of influence and draft procedures and protocols for future cooperation and conflict of interest resolution. Their overly dramatic signing ceremony had led to a wag naming them the “Black Chamber”. Deadly dull and deadly serious though they were it was now satisfactorily all completed. Well to my satisfaction anyway, as they had neither tried to kill me or suborn me, though I suppose that was also a bit unflattering, a tiny part of me thought. The long voyage to New York had been a peaceful pleasure, a liner back in operation and no U-boats or icebergs to interrupt the relaxation. Now all that remained was another long voyage home. Thankfully budgets did not stretch to flying me across the Atlantic. That left a couple of days of sight-seeing and shopping before the sailing later in the week. Life looked good for a change, as I had the funds and some empty steamer trunks to fill. The only fly in the ointment was the request, from the British Security Coordination Plc at the Rockefeller Centre, (our SOE cover unit for American operations still left over from the War), to consult a Professor Kober at Brooklyn College and collect some translation work. I suspected Angleton had a hand in this, though I knew he was on his travels (with the new girl, Esther Banks, somewhere).

New York in 1950 was a world away from dismal old London. I suppose not being bombed helped but there was a bustling embrace of what was to be tomorrow rather than London’s day dreams of a future past. Anyway using family funds I had secured a nice room at the New Yorker hotel which was busy enough for a lone English woman not to be noticed and yet still interesting enough for me. Much better than the hostel slum the consulate were willing to pay for.

Brooklyn College was a busy place, the swirls of students in their colourful and trendsetting clothing was slightly unnerving especially since for the last decade my default clothing had been a khaki uniform. In my fashionable, for London, suit I must look to them like someone’s mother come to visit. On realising I now must be old if I was criticising the dress sense of teenagers, I went in search of and eventually found my Professor. She was at first appearance a small, dowdy woman with thick glasses, but a moments study proved that she knew the advantage of the appropriate camouflage, especially as she shared her office with 4 other faculty members of the Classics Department. At the moment she was busy, tactfully letting a student named Eva, know the many crucial weaknesses in her last essay. I sat in a chair by the door observing the flows of academia and friendly rivalry around the bright, large and airy room and thought of a path I had chosen not to travel and a future denied. Maybe my wistful look and slight day dreaminess struck something in Kober as when I noticed she was in front of me and started, she smiled an introduction and said it was time for lunch on the quad. She picked up her satchel and guided me to the stairs.

We sat on a bench in the warm dappled sun and shade below the large tree surrounded by the bustle and burble of eager minds and voices, even the tree was happy as it slurped energy to turn air and water into even more tree. I actually felt relaxed and happy, unusual I know.

“You look like you have come a long way, why don’t you share my lunch. My mother always makes too many sandwiches. I need building up she says, well for the last 30 years she has been saying the same thing. More so since father died.” Professor Kober wistfully began as she rummaged in her satchel and retrieved a lunch bag and a bottle of soda.

“Mothers are the same the world over. Since my father died, she has only intensified her efforts to see me married with children. Oh I’m sorry that was terribly informal of me. I still have not introduced myself. My name is Helen; we have a mutual friend, a Mr Angleton, who has asked me to come here today”.

“Ha, “friend” is it! James must be getting sentimental in his old age. Does that mean you are also one of his projects? I know I am! Why don’t you call me Alice, and lets just enjoy lunch before business, it’s such a fine day. So have you resisted the siren call of marriage then?” chortled Professor Kober as she opened the sandwiches.

“Well I did once fall heavily for a pair of brown eyes and square shoulders in a uniform but the War put paid to that. It was a long time ago and a world away, since then …

After a while I realised I was actually talking about myself rather than my cover personality, dammit I really must get a grip, it had been too long since I had a conversation with a friendly face and years since I had seen Daphne and Toby. Dear Perks had never made it out of Berlin in 48. No! Don’t think about it! I wrenched myself back to now.

“Well Alice, James asked me to pick up a translation from you. So which language do you specialise in?” I asked returning to the present

“Why all of them of course,” Alice laughed, “though at the moment I am working my way through the last few dead ones and as a side project I am transcribing the library books into Braille. Languages are such wonderful things so why stop at one! I assume that is why James asked for some help. Very interesting, those clay tablets he sent me. You should tell him they have been very helpful. I think I may have a way into Linear A now. Of course, he has kept his cards close to his chest on why he wants it done. Any clues Helen?” she said peering quizzically at me over her glasses.

“Sorry Professor, I am only the messenger girl on this errand, I have not seen James in quite a while. Well Alice if it is not indiscreet maybe you can tell me when you met James”.

“I last saw him in 47 in Oxford. I was hand copying the tablets discovered by Evans in Knossos. James had a habit of turning up and helping, not very forthcoming about where he was tenured but very helpful indeed. He is such a gentleman”.

“I will have to tell him you said so when I next meet him, Alice. I am sure he will like that” I giggled away.

“What about you Helen, are you a language buff?” she asked

“Well, before the War I studied Oriental languages at Cambridge, though since my family are from India I also know Hindi, Urdu and enough of ancient Sanskrit to go tomb-raiding” I laughed again

Alice then launched into Sanskrit and told one of the dirtiest jokes I had heard in ages, and I had been a soldier. We then spent the next half hour swapping ribald jokes and comments about the university staff in languages unspoken for a thousand years. It was the happiest I had been for a while and would be for a long time yet.

“Unfortunately I now have to go off and bore some young minds for a few hours of lecturing. Maybe we could meet again and we could chat some more? I’m free in the afternoon tomorrow.” Alice ventured, as she gathered up the remains of our lunch into the paper bag.

“That would be nice, I had planned to do some sight-seeing and a bit of shopping, maybe we could do that together. I’m staying at the New Yorker; maybe you could meet me there for lunch then see how it goes.” I replied

“Well if you are staying there I will let you buy the cocktails” she laughed a reply. “I‘ll be there by 1pm and I will bring that report.” She called over her shoulder as she left heading towards the stairwell and a flux of students. A wry smile lit my lips, as a pulse of amber heat from my pendent spread between my breasts.

London, June 1950.

A surprisingly small office in the Laundry, no windows, drab green décor, and outdated Ministry posters filled the gaps between the overflowing shelving that surrounded the single desk and chair.

Angleton was incandescent with rage, you could tell by the way he just tapped his pencil against the file on his desk, and stared quietly at the standing, shiny suited bureaucrat isolated on the small patch of carpet on the other side of the desk. With a sigh Angleton brought the meeting to its inevitable conclusion.

“Did you not think that sending Agent Darjeeling to collect a low level, written report would be raising the profile of our asset a tad? Was there no one else? Anyone else could have done it. It was not discreet. By the Gods boy, it was the equivalent of sending a Tiger tank to the corner-shop to collect the paper. It would be noticed, and pondered upon, questions would be asked, and suspicions be aroused”.

The chinless wonder that was this year’s head of communications found it very difficult to be his usually confident and brazen bull-shitter, and stared at his feet and mumbled “Costings are very difficult at the moment and she was the only agent we had on the East Coast. I only passed on the request that came from this department, you will find that I have followed all the necessary procedures, so cannot in all faith be held responsible for any failing beyond my department” he mumbled on.

“It is failings in your department that we will have to investigate then, and maybe your responsibility for them, you had best leave while you can” Angleton murmured.

The ashen faced bureaucrat left, alive for the time being.

Angleton continued to stare at the thin file, Case Babylon Blue, on the desk before him. Damn the inept, small time, penny pinching thinking he had to work with these days. Where on Earth would he find another talent like Kober? This project, his project could now be set back years. Though at least the enemy had now revealed he was on the right track. Why else have Alice eliminated a mere two days after meeting Hunter. The attendant paperwork on the post mortem with cancer as a cause of death suggested Black Chamber involvement rather than the Soviets. So allies are only allies until they are not. Some more careful thought will have to be brought to bear to see this project through.

The folder was ribboned and sent for despatch to filing.

 

June 1950

War erupts again in the East, business as usual then for Q division SOE, as was.

 

            tbc


	5. A spiral within a spiral

London, Autumn 1952.

With a harumpff I folded up the newspaper. If the “War” was not against the Germans then British were not interested very much. The newspapers were more focussed on speculations as to what would come off the ration lists this year, and the mystery lights buzzing around Washington than the slaughter in a faraway “police action” and Helen’s part in it. Not that I expected my face on the front of the Picture Post but still. Well no one will know for at least a hundred years, if ever, I thought to myself as I slid the paper into a bin in St James’ Park.

  
I stepped on into the park, and headed towards the lake. My fashionable coat, jacket, skirt, gloves and pert hat were a concession to no longer being in an obvious battle zone. Their lightweight and colours reminded me that I would not have to leap into any ditches or scramble across the rubble, probably. Though the thought of wearing my warded battle dress and equipment to the meeting had been tempting and still gave me pause for humour, if a trifle dark.

  
Now that I was back in London, I was technically a civil servant in a minor administrative department liaising between the War Office and the Foreign Office, well that’s what my new security pass said. The contents of the slightly over large leather satchel that hung from my shoulder would have given anyone rummaging through it reasons to doubt my cover story, but unfortunately for them just not for very long. The satchel was a necessity now that women’s fashion was moving away from utilitarian, though I still missed the ample pockets of a Khaki uniform. I can’t be the only woman who needs to carry things about, I mused to myself. Even if not necessary I would have used it anyway, a last gift from Alice, I wonder what she is up to I thought with a smile.

  
The cool drizzle easing through the park had thinned out the lunch crowd and gave me an opportunity to check if I was under any kind of close surveillance. Some tricks of the trade, which had saved me on more than one occasion.  
I had only been in London two weeks, one day in Dansey house, nine days in an office in Whitehall, and now I was stalking through the parks of central London, on some “Boys Own” spy rubbish, I thought. It seems leave only applied to the military, and when I was in Great Britain I was no longer officially military, but now a minor civil servant, and so I have to wait for time to open up on the holiday rota.

  
A stiff breeze and rustle of leaves across the path had me reminiscing. I longed for a chance to turn back time and wander through India again with my Granny, to feel the heat warm her through to her bones and view the world again with a new wonder, like that time so long ago. Autumn in England always brought out my regretful side, but what is a girl to do!  
The lake held a group of discordant ducks squabbling around the thin lunch crowd for scraps and surprisingly for me, a melancholic looking pelican strutting along the bank with its wary eye on all. While appearing to watch the avians I sought out my contact, he (as always seemed to be the case) was sat alone on a bench further along the path. I might have spent over a decade in one uniform or another but at least I made the effort to blend into the background with the civilians. Even in his civil service suit, he gave the impression of senior divisional officer, from bristling RAF moustache to sharp creases and shiny shoes. His appearance of impatience and disdain for those around him only reinforced my opinion of him.

  
“Well don’t just stand there, take a seat why don’t you!” he gruffed at me with a nod at the end of the bench.  
“Since I am who you are expecting, can I have the code word please, Sir, before I get comfortable” I replied as I got closer.  
“Ruffled Ocarina, is that clear Hunter”, he replied as I glared at him.  
“Thank you” I replied as I gave the slightly damp park bench a sweep with my handkerchief.  
“Well I hope I pass, of course I have done my research on you, Captain Hunter. Die Schwarze Hexe, Bloody Baba Yaga, politeness refrains me from saying aloud what the Chinese are calling you. You have made an impressive list of enemies Agent Darjeeling, I want you to make some more.”  
“I already have a posting and a department head, why isn’t he at this meeting?”  
“Now, now Hunter, your present office is not secure enough for my liking, as walls have ears and whatnot. So you will continue to work in the FO and liaise with them in the upcoming negotiations with “Blue Hades”, but I thought I would introduce myself and make your role crystal clear. My department represents an experimental idea in management of experienced or exceptional staff, who will be brought together on an ad hoc basis to investigate and or neutralise any emergent threats either external or internal to our organisation. You have been seconded to me for a role in conjunction with your present duties. At certain times I will have the requisite authorisations to capitalise on all your time and skills. Usually this will be at very short notice and of course with your complete cooperation and discretion.”  
“Well, what is in it for me? A promotion, extra rations, luncheon vouchers?”  
“Don’t be crass Hunter. I have read your files. You could have tried a return to Civvy Street and retirement in 45 but no. You looked at your future; of marriage, of queuing up with your ration book at the green grocers, of raising the whelps till boredom drove you to drink and despair and you wanted none of it. You want to be here, you need to be here. Here you have a purpose, here you are useful. In our ever constricting world you can have some importance. This of course, is what I am offering you.”  
“You don’t know me well enough to make that judgement”  
“Maybe, maybe not we shall see. You will shortly receive full details and clearances, but of course you will only discuss it with me. Well that will be all for now. So off you go,” he replied dismissing me and any concerns I had.  
“Damn, as soon as I get away from one bastard boss, I get given another,” I thought gloomily to myself as I left for the office.

My secondment with the Foreign Office soon settled into an interesting humdrum bureaucracy. My posting seemed a big drop down in responsibility compared to what I was doing a few months back in Korea, but a bit of light clerical duty would suit me fine until I repaired a few cracks around my edges. Fortunately the FO’s bureaucrat just treats me as an experienced office manager with the required clearances and had no interest in my past or skills. I suppose departmental secrecy and what not sparing everyone’s blushes. My main role was the collating and synthesis of all our existing files concerning past meetings with the entities known as Blue Hades. There was an upcoming treaty renewal conference and the recent upsurge in their activities in the atmosphere had even reached the papers. The attribution of their overflights to UFO’s and little green men had everyone safely looking in the wrong direction for answers. Ostensibly my main task seemed to be to assemble as many position papers as possible to what was really going on in the hope that we might be better prepared to their demands than the last time. Especially now, that they had given a time and place for the conference; early November on an island off the Dutch coast, near Walcheren.

8th October 1952  
The waiting on the platform at Harrow train station was becoming nerve jangling. The train was due in 5 minutes and I was nervous enough but refused to pace the platform, but instead stood with my back against a wall between posters advertising a trip by BOAC Comet to Johannesburg and some mysterious wonder foodstuff. I pulled the collar of my damp overcoat closer what I had found out was not pleasant and the implications would lead to some severe complications if I did not plan out my future very carefully.  
I had been instructed by internal memo the day before to be outside Harrow Town hall at the ludicrously early hour of seven thirty a.m. for a letter drop by Oracle. Oracle Ops as I knew them or The Weather Office as they were now known, the names changed with every new government and I was still struggling to keep up to date, were secretive even for SOE and usually useless but they were never to be ignored. It seemed my new “manager” wanted to flex his muscles and order me about as just another cog in his machinations. Definitely not my management style and I had more combat experience than he did. I know, I checked, once a file rat always a file rat.  
I had been kept waiting for ten minutes in the dull dawn drizzle before my tradecraft sense took over and I moved away from the door at the town hall and stood at a nearby bus stop and its queue. A bus arrived and I walked away with those who got off and crossed the road to the stop opposite. There seemed to be no observers or loiterers, all the pedestrians seemed to be rushing to work hunched against the grey light and cold drizzle. The grinding of bus gears and diesel fumes filled the busy street. An elderly man in light tan overcoat and trilby shuffled onto the steps outside the town hall entrance and stood at the top by the entrance and slowly swivelled around to view the street, he held a very large envelope in one hand.  
“Oh for Gods’ sake what is this amateurish farce? Whoever planned this needs a stern word and some serious retraining.” I thought angrily and crossed the road, a final scan around the street and I walked up the steps and glared at the old man. Silence descended around the two of us which surprised me as he did it without any obvious display.  
“Agent Darjeeling, if you can confirm” he said with a tip of his hat.  
I glared around the street but could still see no obvious danger, “Rancid Ocelot, and this is not how to do this!” I spluttered at him.  
He held out the envelope but would not release it as I took it, “What will be, has ended. What was once may yet come to pass. I am so very sorry, young lady” and with that he stepped spryly away from me and disappeared into the office crowd on the street. The envelope had my name on it, my real name at that which made me even more furious at whoever was in charge of the charade. The envelope contained several sheets which I quickly checked, but only the first had type on it. “You are now being watched”, I shoved the sheets back into the envelope and that I thrust angrily into my satchel bag. I was angry and now also afraid, I scanned the street again. It was time to get to Dansey House and rip off some heads, until I found out what the hell was going on.  
There was a light drizzle falling onto the tracks and it was still cold, but the thought of sitting in the smoke filled tea room or the waiting room made me queasy. The platform was busy as the commuter crowd for Euston swelled. Overcoats, hats, and umbrellas made keeping track of any observers a nightmare of guesswork. I had the nerve wracking suspicion that I was under watch. Since arriving at the station my pendent started pulsing weakly under my shirt. Was my disquiet waking it or was it causing my twitchiness? I had not felt this fraught since Korea but that was in a battle-zone, not some suburban commuter station. To an unwary onlooker I appeared to look at my wristwatch and mutter about the lateness of the train, while in fact I was checking the wards on my wrists and pushed some power into them to increase their sensitivity.

  
I was aware that along the platform there were any number of possible threats, but now the train appeared and chuffed in clouds of steam and smoke to a halt. The crowd perked up in attention and shuffled towards the carriage doors. I opened my mind to my pendent and allowed my djinn a greater access to my senses and searched the platform. My senses now buzzed and sensations became over real, but the ebbing and flowing commuters around the carriage doors and platform exits were still confusing me. There was definitely an air of the probability of threat or danger around me but it was still diffuse.  
Another quick glance around the platform, then I strolled along a carriage or two checking the compartments as people bustled on and off around me, rushing on in their inexplicable lives. My djinn started to pulse hot against my skin, there was definitely danger yet the smoke on the platform made it difficult to isolate any suspect. I got on a random carriage; there was a mother with a school boy in a uniform, sitting in the opposite corner and some office girl types chatting. I smiled and nodded at them and sat by the door on the saggy seat and glanced out the window. There was definitely someone using an invocation but not directly at me. What was going on? The train settled as it waited for a signal change, the platform cleared of passengers and loiterers as the moments ticked on. There was a sudden wash of pain across my senses, and my mind flashed back to Berlin and I could taste blood again in my mouth. I stumbled up and off the seat and out the door and onto the platform. Someone had just used a black theorem and stolen a soul. “But not mine?” I thought “then who and why and where?” I glanced up and down the platform; the guard and a porter at the far end of the train were the only people visible. My mind’s eye picked up a flicker of movement behind and above me on the footbridge. I spun around but I was alone on the platform. I stepped away from the train to get a better view along the platform and across the tracks to the other platforms but no one came down off the foot bridge. My heightened senses then picked up the singing on the tracks beside me as the Perth to London express reached the station at full speed. The stationary commuter train splintered like matchwood as the tonnes of high speed locomotive smashed into the rear carriages and then reared up and over it and spilled across the tracks and platforms crushing all before it. I leapt through the waiting room door and with a scream raised all my wards and shield to maximum power. I tried to get away but a split second later a carriage plunged into the front of the building taking out the door and walls holding up the front of the waiting room.

  
The roof collapsed onto the carriage slowing it just enough that it only broke Helen’s left arm as she was thrown against the opposite wall. Her pendent eagerly accepted the savage noise of the rending metal and wood crashing around her. The squeal of hot pain from her arm as she was pinned against the wall by a flying bench and the screams and pain from the dying passengers flooded around her and funnelled into her pendent. In her dazed state Helen could make out a rising whistling of panic and then the shock wave as the London to Liverpool express then smashed into the still rattling carnage blocking the tracks. Mercifully for her she then passed out.

  
The dust was choking and cut off my waking scream but still caused my eyes to weep, thankfully there was no smoke or flames. Light from the window illuminated the tangle of wood and metal I was trapped in, and I started to cough again. There was as crash as the window glass gave in under the impact of an axe, followed by the head of a fireman. “There is someone still in here” I heard him call out. “Hang on Miss, we’ll have you out in a jiffy. Get some props over here, and a stretcher.” He smashed the rest of the window out then clambered through it to squeeze next to me.  
“Don’t worry Miss, we will soon get you out. We’ll just push up the roof a bit and slide you out. Are you hurt anywhere? Your arm looks a bit banged up so I will just tie that on with a sling then they can take you to the hospital and take care of you there. Was there anyone else in here with you? No? Well deep breath Miss and we will pull you out. There that’s not so bad, just lie on the stretcher Miss and we will pass you out the window and get you to an ambulance. Hold on tight, right lads on three, and up and through. You got her Bert? Right, now two of you take her across to Station Road, the medics are set up there, one of them will have to sort out her arm and check her out. I’ll search through what’s left in here. Pass me another torch so I can see if anyone is under the carriage”.

  
I let the talk and commands float around me but kept a steely grip on the satchel still hanging from my shoulder. My pendent slowly pulsed warm against my chest, full and content on the dramatic events and flows of energy of the last hours. My coat was scuffed and slightly blood splattered but not too many rips. I had managed to lose a shoe which gave me a pang of annoyance, they were nearly new, and my stockings were torn at the knee, but I was alive and secure for the time being. I let the emergency state clasp me and whisk me off to safety of a sort.

  
The local hospital was perilously close to collapse due to the arrival of the hundreds of dead and wounded. The overloaded staff had momentarily assessed Helen as not critical and put her in a chair out of the way till later. Helen watched all the horror from her seat in a corridor lined with trolleys and stretchers filled with moaning or deathly silent occupants. I spent some moments pulling my left wrist back into shape and used a sample of energy from those around me to fuse the bones back into place. Eerie echoes of Korea rattled through my mind, except now I was not in a centre of an artillery barrage, but I was still surrounded by the dead and dying. I sagged pale faced and panting deeper into the seat, luckily the others around me were concentrating on their own misery to notice very much the slender, foreign looking woman. After another 20 minutes it was time to leave, before the bureaucracy demons found me and trapped me in forms. The scurry of nurses up and down the corridor had stopped so I got up shakily and walked along the line of stretchers until a pair of shoes that looked suitable appeared. I tugged them off the unresponsive patient and headed into a cloakroom. Sealing and warding the door I quickly stripped off the torn stockings, grimaced as I put them and the single shoe into the waste bin and made a hurried attempt to clean and tidy myself up. I washed as much dust and dried blood off as I could. There was not much I could do with my coat with its tears and stains, except turning it inside out, not ideal but it should get me away from the hospital if I was still being watched. My hat had gone so I undid some pins and let my hair down. I pulled myself up into my full petite height with a deep breath, then put on the too tight shoes, “don’t think about them” I thought, and unwarding the door I strode out and through the corridor and out of the hospital as just another distracted visitor.

  
The street outside the hospital was frantic with people, far too busy with fraught minds to sense if I was being observed. At least the drizzle had stopped so I strode along the pavement but the telephone box had a long queue beside it so I moved on. A bus appeared so I jumped on the back, smiled at the conductor before he got stroppy and bought a ticket into town. I took a seat downstairs and ignoring the stares of a matron at my coat, slipped my aching feet out of someone else’s shoes. Upstairs would have been better for a scan but the thought of sitting in the fog of cigarette smoke was too much for my stomach today. I could sense no ill intent towards me apart from the disgruntled matron fuming at my bare feet and lose hair, so maybe I was not being followed. Time to report in but I was not yet willing to risk the tube, not today. So a bus ride or two it would have to be. So I stared out the window as the afternoon wound slowly to dusk.


End file.
